


500 days of april (and just two more til june)

by clintscoffeepot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 90's board games, Anal Sex, Autofellatio, Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Depressed Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Quarantine Shenanigans, Shower Sex, Soft Dom Bucky Barnes, coronavirus/pandemic fic, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25338685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot
Summary: “I think it could be fun. We can learn some new skills, teach each other stuff. We’ll come out of quarantine more kickass than ever.” Clint squints in the dim light, accidentally poking a hole through the thin sheet of paper balanced on his thigh. “So far I’ve got acrobatics, archery, and art. What else starts with A?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 29
Kudos: 152





	500 days of april (and just two more til june)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squadrickchestopher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/gifts).



> Thank you to [squadrickchestopher](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/) for being the best beta/mentor/enabler and an all-around delightful human being.

“Ow, ow!”

“Your form is awful, I’m just helping.”

“You seriously can bend like this?” Bucky shakes Clint’s hands off him and flops onto the rug in the middle of their apartment. It’s a dumb rug, one they’ve never put a slip-proof mat under so it skids around just waiting to break somebody’s neck if they step on it the wrong way. “I nearly cracked my head open.”

Clint steps over Bucky, bare feet planted on either side of his hips. “I was spotting you, you were fine.”

“My back was literally about to snap in half.”

As if to call Bucky’s bluff—or maybe just to show what an asshole he really is—Clint bends backwards with all the ease of a slinky, hands landing on the ground somewhere by Bucky’s ankles. Bucky lifts his head just enough to watch him get his legs up in the air and turn around while walking on his hands, then drop back down to his feet.

“I can’t do that.”Clint flops down next to him on the ground. 

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Some of us are born with bones in our bodies.”

“I have bones.” Clint points out, leaning back on his hands and crossing his ankles as he looks disapprovingly at Bucky. “I just choose to ignore them.”

Bucky drops his head back to the hardwood floor. Or the rug, rather. _Man, this rug really sucks, there’s no padding at all._ “Suddenly it makes so much sense why you end up in Medical as often as you do.”

Clint ignores him completely and hops back up to his feet with springy ease. “Come on, I’ve seen you backflip off buildings before.”

“Yeah. Tall buildings, with lots of clearance between me and the ground.” Bucky grunts, sitting himself up but not moving despite the way Clint picks up his arm and tries to drag him to his feet again. “Babe,” And now he sounds like he’s whining, because really, they’ve been at this all morning and all Bucky’s gained is a bump on the head and some wounded pride. “I can’t move like you. You bend like a pipe cleaner and I’m—” He looks down at himself, bare chested and with thick thighs protruding from the smallest pair of gym shorts Clint could force him into. “I’m _several_ tree trunks. Big ones.”

Clint sighs and drops Bucky’s arm in favor of cupping his face and tipping it up. “How ‘bout this. You give me one good backbend kickover and I’ll climb you like a tree trunk. Deal?”

It’s such a dumb line. Bucky knows he shouldn’t fall for it. But he sees the way Clint’s eyes flick over to the crisp piece of paper with _acrobatics_ scrawled at the top of a bulleted list, and he can’t bring himself to break his spirits when he’s just trying to make good out of a bad situation. 

It’s not like anyone could have foreseen a fucking _pandemic._

“Alright,” He grunts as he stands back up, kicking the rug out of the way. “But if you drop me again I’ll twist you like a churro.”

Clint is seconds away from catching Bucky’s back in his hands when—

“Churros don’t—did you mean a pretzel? Wait—!”

Bucky spends the rest of the night with a bag of frozen peas on his head.

* * *

The thing is, pandemics aren’t exactly the kind of enemy you can suit up and fight.

Clint had, perhaps naively, assumed that if something like this ever did happen, some world crisis that was more biological calamity than alien invasion, it’d be all hands on deck. Community relief. Disaster preparedness. _Something._

“Are you saying the bad guys are quarantining too?” he asks, looking at Steve with a raised brow and a heavy dose of skepticism. “Because that seems highly unlikely.” It’s barely even a week into New York’s official lockdown. It’s March.

It’s Bucky’s birthday, actually. They were supposed to have a party here at the tower. That doesn’t look like it’s going to be happening.

Steve stands there with his hands on his hips, shoulders rising and falling in a dramatic display of sympathy and disappointment. “I know it feels like the opposite of what all of us want to be doing right now, but we’ve been asked to keep a bare-bones team to limit potential exposure.”

Clint looks over at Bucky. He’s taking this surprisingly well for someone that just had his birthday ruined.

“All I’m saying,” Steve continues, “Is that you two have pretty much been running the show for the last few months. You just got back from that overseas mission, it’s just a precaution.”

The pieces finally click into place and Clint frowns. “You think we’ve been exposed?”

Steve’s lips pull into a line. “I’d rather not take the chance, Clint. We just need you to quarantine for fourteen days, until we know you’re in the clear.”

He notices Steve doesn’t even glance at Bucky when he says it. Right. Super soldier. He’s not the one they’re worried will get this coronavirus thing. “Two weeks?”

“At least. We’ll call you if we need you. But until then, you’re on mandatory downtime.” Steve shrugs. “Think of it as a vacation.”

* * *

They come up with the idea for the list while drinking beers and eating a shitty-yet-somehow-also-delicious store bought cake. The lady at the counter had misheard Clint through his face mask though, so the personalized text says _‘Happy Birthday Buckwheat’_ in peppy pink icing.

“I think it’s a good idea.” Bucky offers as he lifts his beer to his lips, kicked back on a blanket on the roof of the apartment building. It’s been such a warm winter that they’d decided to take dinner outside to enjoy the stars.

It’s overcast. Clint’s already apologized for it too many times, feeling bad that even their backup birthday plans have gone to shit.

“Yeah, I think it could be fun. We can learn some new skills, teach each other stuff. We’ll come out of quarantine more kickass than ever.” Clint squints in the dim light, accidentally poking a hole through the thin sheet of paper balanced on his thigh. “So far I’ve got acrobatics, archery, and art. What else starts with A?”

“Air hockey?”

“We don’t have access to that.”Bucky hums around his beer. 

“Aquarium.”

“What would we do, watch fish videos on Youtube?” 

Bucky just shrugs, watching Clint out of the corner of his eye in the yellow glow of streetlights. 

Clint knows that look. It’s the ‘stop your bullshit’ look that Bucky gets whenever Clint’s beat himself up too much over something small. He may have gone overboard earlier with moping about Bucky’s ruined birthday and the mood of the night is still teetering. It’s just a lot. Today has been a lot. The weight of the unknown with this whole pandemic thing, suddenly getting benched from work, having to pivot the birthday plans on a dime. It feels stupid to be upset over any of it but there’s a weight still settled in his chest and the air around them isn’t cold enough to clear it when he takes a deep breath. It’s still bothering him, and Bucky knows.

Bucky sets his beer aside and wraps his arm around Clint’s shoulders, laying back and drawing him close. He manhandles them into a comfortable position, rolling so they’re chest to chest, legs tangled together. “It’s okay. We can work on the list later,” he murmurs, lips pressing to Clint’s forehead in a tender brush that brings with it a rush of emotions—cozy, sweet, and just a little bit aching. Too good for Clint to deserve it, but too precious for him to ever let go.

“Yeah.” Clint murmurs, nudging his nose against the warm skin of Bucky’s neck and letting his eyes close. The tightness in his chest eases with every inhale. He’s content to just lay here the rest of the night and let the stress of the day blow over. Cut their losses and hope tomorrow is better.

“I love you.”

Clint will never—ever, ever, in a million years—know what he did to deserve Bucky Barnes, who says _I love you’s_ without even a hint of reservation. Bucky Barnes who looks at Clint like he can read every worry from his mind as easily as if Clint wore it on his forehead like a glowing marquee.

Bucky Barnes who is one hundred and three years old and fucking _perfect_.

“I love you too,” Clint says after a breath, his voice barely a murmur above the evening buzz of Brooklyn noise that never seems to end. He doesn’t need to open his eyes for his lips to find their target, he never misses anyhow, and the kiss is slow and lazy and perfect.  “Happy birthday.”

* * *

They probably have more sex in the first two weeks of quarantine than they’ve had in the history of their relationship. They each get an extra paycheck from the Avengers as a way to help balance the fact that they’re required to stay home, and Bucky doubles their sex toy collection with it. He calls it an investment into their wellbeing during “these trying times” and they spend an entire day in bed trying everything out.

They fall into a rhythm around each other: wake up, coffee, work out, lunch. Bucky takes Lucky out on a walk and runs any necessary errands while Clint curls up with Alpine and stares wistfully out the window wishing he could join them. Then it’s movies or an activity off the list—something they can stretch out until dinner—cuddles, and bed.

The list ends up tacked on the fridge next to old Christmas cards and invitations. It takes them a little while to get back to it after the initial so-so success of the acrobatics lesson, but after a cheesy aerobics tape from the 80’s and an aquarium-themed day watching every ocean documentary they can find, they get in the swing of it and the list starts to expand every time one of them thinks of a new activity from A to Z.

Bucky seems to have made it his personal mission to initiate the list activity days, and Clint knows it’s because he doesn’t like how Clint wanders the apartment in a listless funk on the days in between.

It only takes two weeks for Clint to call his doctor and ask for a refill on his depression meds. He’s been spotty about taking them lately, but work kept them busy enough he’d been able to cope. Bucky recognizes the Caremark stamp on the front of the package when it comes in the mail and they have a conversation about it that night, about communication, and keeping to a schedule, and recognizing slumps for what they are. It’s all the things Clint’s bad at, but at least Bucky knows that, knows that if they’re going to be on lockdown for longer than a month there’s going to be more than a few bad days ahead.

* * *

March is over so fast; Clint blinks and it’s gone. It’s been raining for almost a week straight, but today the dampened light is filtering so nicely through the storm clouds, and he feels cozy in boxers and one of Bucky’s henleys.

“Hey, you coming?” Bucky jogs down the stairs from the loft with Clint’s bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.

“What?” Clint nearly sloshes coffee down his front, thinking at first there’s some kind of enemy.Bucky gives a jut of his chin and Clint turns to follow the motion, eyes falling on the list on the fridge.

“Aw, archery, yes!” He downs the rest of his coffee quickly and runs past Bucky to beat him to the stairs. “Bring my trick arrows! I wanna show you something!”

Clint sets up the targets in the basement, Bucky brings down the weapons, and they spend a whole afternoon correcting each other’s form and blowing off steam. It’s nice. Loose and happy and fun. They make absolute carnage of every target Clint’s got, and put more than a few dents in the walls, but it’s one of the best damn days they’ve had so far. It’s what they’re good at, shooting shit and being together. It’s easy.

* * *

Art is not easy.

Art is deceptively difficult, and after multiple attempts and an overpriced Skillshare class, all they’ve got to show for it are two horribly composed stick figure drawings and an empty bottle of wine.

Bucky squints at Clint’s picture of two stick figure mermaids that he vehemently claimed to be a self portrait. “So we’re mermaids. And you’re what?”

“Getting lured in by a pizza delivery boat that’s dropped some pizza in the water, and you’re trying to rescue me.” Clint holds it out to him proudly. He worked hard on this one, and it actually turned out halfway decent.

“What’s on my tail? Is that supposed to be my dick?”

“No, it’s your Soviet star.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky peers closer. “Is that a _Domino’s_ sailboat?”

Clint shoves the picture closer, jabbing a finger at the boat. “It clearly says ‘Delicious Pizza’ on the front.”

“Looks like the Domino’s logo to me.”

“Well, it’s not. I’m not looking for a copyright lawsuit.”

Bucky drags one of the kitchen stools closer with a foot, perching on it and picking up his own drawing. “Mine’s better.”

Clint steals the picture from his hands. It’s something of a family portrait, Bucky and Clint’s little stick hands meeting at a point like they’re holding onto each other. The stick dog that’s meant to be Lucky is awful and the stick cat for Alpine is worse, but—

“Okay, maybe it’s better objectively,” Clint concedes, “but mine has more creative flair and I’m pretty sure that’s what art is actually about.” He sticks both pictures to the front of the fridge with a magnet, stepping back to appreciate them. “I think this was a success.”

Bucky drags over the list that’s sitting by the pile of mail on the counter, running a line through _art_. “That’s the last A-activity. We moving on to B?”

“I guess, unless one of us thinks of something else.” Clint leans down and scoops up Alpine from where she’s slinking up against his ankle looking for attention. “Wanna watch a movie?” He pecks a kiss to her little kitten nose and she bats at his face with her paw.

“Sure, I’ll throw some popcorn in.” Bucky stands and slips into the kitchen while Clint goes to pick the movie, and they spend the rest of the night passing a bottle of wine between the two of them because apparently there’s no rules when you’re in quarantine.

* * *

There’s a new word on the list when Bucky wakes up. He takes one look at it and snorts, rolling back over in bed and pulling the covers up over his shoulders. “That’s not an all day activity, Clint.” He points out, words muffled with a yawn.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” Clint rolls onto his back, kicking the covers off of himself dramatically.

“Fire thighs?” Bucky asks knowingly, reaching over and sliding his hand down Clint’s leg. Of the two of them Bucky tends to run hotter in the night, but Clint has thighs that burn like the surface of the sun. Sure enough, Clint’s legs are hot enough he could fry an egg on them.

He lets his eyes close as he slides his hand over the soft skin of Clint’s thighs, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he hears a soft, shuddery inhale beside him when his fingers hike up higher and ghost against Clint’s morning wood. He does it again, curling his fingers around him and giving a lazy stroke.

“Th-that’s not on the list.” Clint stammers, though he doesn’t seem that bothered, his hips canting up at the touch.

Bucky finally rolls over onto his side and nuzzles his face right up into Clint’s neck, mouthing a wet kiss to his throat. “You wanna show off for me, doll? Is that what this is about?” he rumbles.

Clint’s eyes fly open. Well _now_ he’s awake, and very turned on. Something about the sleep-thick voice and sweet-as-sin implication in his tone sends a shiver down Clint’s spine. “Pretty good at it. Want to see?”

Bucky presses one more kiss to Clint’s neck and then rolls himself up onto his knees.

“What are you—ah!” Clint yelps as Bucky wraps his big arms up under his thighs and hauls them up in the air unceremoniously. He ends up with all his weight on his shoulder blades, being pressed into the mattress as Bucky pushes his knees to his chest. He looks up at Bucky through his legs. “Oh hey. Come here often?”

Bucky gives Clint’s ass a smack. “Frequently.” He rubs his hands up and down the backs of Clint’s thighs and over his ass, giving it a squeeze. “Starting to think you’re stalling because you can’t do it.”

“Stop distracting me then and give me some room.”

Bucky shifts the barest inch, leaning in and blowing a cool breath along Clint’s hot thighs, looking satisfied as he watches goose bumps prickle up on his skin. “How’d you find this hidden talent anyhow?”

Clint fists around his cock, stroking lazily to get himself fully hard. “Tony brought it up once. I said I could do it and Steve said he didn’t believe me.”

“Had you ever done it before then?”

“Nope.”Bucky raises a brow at him. “Then how’d you know you could do it?”

“Didn’t seem that hard.” Clint licks his lips and tips his head back as he rubs his thumb over the flushed head of his dick. “Sent Steve a picture of it that night as proof, and so he could vouch for me if Tony brought it up again.”

Bucky’s hands still on Clint’s thighs. “I— I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“About Steve seeing me naked? He gave me twenty bucks the next day. Though I’m not sure if he thought we had a bet going or if he meant it like a cam boy tip.”

“I mean Steve seeing you with a dick in your mouth.” Bucky corrects. He reaches down and grips Clint’s jaw, stroking his thumb over his bottom lip. “First time I saw you with a dick in your mouth I decided right then and there the only dick you’d ever suck again was mine.”

Clint rolls his eyes, pressing an affectionate kiss to Bucky’s thumb. “Wow, thanks. So romantic. Now back up, _Buckwheat,_ before I kick you in the head.”

Bucky swats the left cheek of his ass, earning a yelp from Clint and leaving a pink handprint behind. “I swear to god if you make a thing of calling me Buckwheat I’ll beat your ass.”

“Promise?” Clint flashes him a toothy grin as he nudges him back with his foot.

It’s a stretch but he’s always been flexible. As soon as Bucky shuffles back a little more Clint bends himself until his knees hit his shoulders and he catches the head of his cock in his mouth, rolling his tongue over it with a triumphant hum. Not to be a narcissist, but his own mouth feels damn good.

There’s a choked off groan from behind him that makes him smirk and he doubles his efforts just for show, giving an obscene moan of his own to make Bucky jealous that Clint’s using his skills on himself rather than on his boyfriend.

He’s so busy being pleased with himself that he completely misses the shuffle of Bucky moving up towards his head and the plastic pop of the lube bottle’s cap. But then there’s something _cold_ and _wet_ and Clint yelps as two metal fingers rub over his exposed hole, pushing insistently until his body begrudgingly welcomes in the blunt, squarish intruders.

“Ah ah-ow,” Clint’s dick drops from his lips as he tries to squirm away from the onslaught of pressure in his ass but Bucky’s right hand clamps down on the back of his right leg, pinning him knee-to-shoulder. “Bucky!”

“Oh calm down, you’re fine.” Besides the fact that they have a safeword, Bucky knows where Clint’s limits lie, and being folded in half is far from them. He pays Clint’s whining no mind as he wriggles his metal fingers deeper down inside of him. “You’re the one that decided to be a pretzel this morning.”

Clint sucks in a harsh breath as he feels Bucky’s fingers twist and rock in a way that sets off sparklers in his brain. He blinks his eyes open and realizes that from this angle Bucky’s face is blocked by his heavy dick. _When did he take off his pants?_ “Don’t you mean a— _ahh_ —a churro?”

That earns him a smack to the other ass cheek, giving him matching red handprints on each side. “That’s for being a cheeky little shit.”

Clint gasps at the sharp sting against his skin, clenching around Bucky’s fingers. “You’re the one not going by the list.”

“Am so.” The fingers disappear and Clint winks one eye closed as Bucky nearly drips lube on him while slicking his cock up. “Who said I was going by your list?”

“What? That’s not— _fuck!”_ The breath gets punched out of him as Bucky’s cock sinks home. His abs are already starting to ache after being crunched in this position for longer than he’d planned on but he feels Bucky’s metal hand pressing against the base of his spine to tip his hips down further.

Bucky groans and shifts on his knees, planting one foot on the bed to give himself some leverage as he starts to move with short, brisk thrusts. “There we go,” he hums happily, letting his eyes fall closed.

“What do you mean you’re not going by my list?” He narrowly misses a knee to the head as Bucky adjusts himself, and then promptly forgets what he was asking. He moans and clenches around Bucky, his brain lighting up like a Christmas tree.

“Maybe I’ve got my own list.”

“I—oh Bucky, ohh, _James—”_

Clint doesn’t bother keeping his eyes open. At this angle, all he can see are Bucky’s balls and his thick thighs. On second thought, Clint looks up at the way those gorgeous, muscular thighs flex and shift with every thrust. It’s hot. Bucky’s so hot. It’s unfair, really.

Bucky smiles at the use of his real name, it’s always a good sign he’s got Clint right where he wants him. “You with me, baby?” He slows his thrusts just a little, a hand reaching down between them to card through Clint’s hair, gentle in contrast with the agonizing drag of his dick over Clint’s prostate that makes him shudder.

“Huh?”

Bucky chuckles, giving Clint’s hair a short tug. “Make some noise for me, doll.”

He does. It’s embarrassing how much he starts to squirm and keen after that. It’s not until a big drip of precum hits his nose that he realizes how mean the position Bucky’s pinned him in is. “Oh fuck.”

Bucky picks the pace back up and starts nailing Clint’s prostate every time. “You close, baby? Gotta suck yourself off if you want to finish.”

Fuck. Bucky’s voice is downright _filthy._ Hot and deep, and so obviously pleased with himself. His hand slides under the back of Clint’s head, tipping it forward just enough that the tip of Clint’s wet cock rubs against his nose. “Come on. This is your list, sweetheart.”

Clint whimpers as his slicked up tip rubs against his cheek with every rock of Bucky’s hips. He turns to the left and manages to catch it in his mouth just as Bucky gives a particularly hard thrust. He gives a garbled groan and hollows his cheeks, sucking himself feverishly.

“Damn, Clint. Look so pretty like that.” Bucky doesn’t give any real warning he’s about to finish, just groups Clint’s ass tighter with his metal hand and lets out a rocky moan as his hips stutter and then he’s filling Clint up.

“Ah!—” Clint sees stars as the feeling of Bucky emptying into him pushes him over the edge. He sputters as his own hot come splashes over his mouth and cheek, and he feels Bucky’s fingers curl tighter into his hair so he can’t turn his face away.

“Good boy.” Bucky praises as he draws out and shuffles back. His hands are gentle as he guides Clint’s legs slowly back down until he’s stretched out on the bed. “There you go, take it easy.”

Clint groans as he feels pins and needles prickle along his legs for having them over his head for so long. “That was so mean, you did that on purpose,” he huffs, wiping a dribble of come off his eyelid.

“Mm. Yeah.” Bucky smirks at him, rubbing his metal fingers over Clint’s sore abs and looking at him like he’s a work of art. “But you liked it.” He slides his hand up Clint’s chest and neck, stroking them along his cheek. It seems like a sweet gesture but it ends with Bucky swiping a thick stripe of come from his cheek and pushing his fingers into Clint’s mouth. “Clean it up. There you go.”

Clint allows him to do it two more times, licking Bucky’s fingers clean before he pushes his hand away and wipes the rest from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Coffee,” he demands.

Bucky chuckles and rolls off the bed, leaning down briefly to press a kiss to Clint’s forehead. “Coffee.” He agrees. He grabs Clint’s list from where it sits on the nightstand and takes it with him down the stairs, slapping it onto the fridge with a magnet to hold it up. He rummages around for a pen after pressing the button on the coffee maker, scribbling in the corner of the list until he finds one that works. “Check,” he murmurs to himself, putting a line through _autofellatio._

* * *

It’s somehow already May. Clint honestly thought they’d have been called in at some point, but they haven’t even been asked to do paperwork. It’s the longest string of time-off he’s ever had that wasn’t medical related. 

“You sure they didn’t just forget about us?” He asks Bucky one day, flour on his nose and cheek as he kneads a mass of bread dough. They’ve hit the B’s on the list. Baking, today.

Bucky blinks, distracted momentarily by the flex of Clint’s biceps. “Nah. Talked to Steve last night, he said it’s been slow. Nothing they couldn’t handle without us.” He opens the oven door and pulls a tray of cookies out with his metal hand.

“I guess we’re not the hot shit we thought we were, James—no!” He jerks forward but not in time to stop Bucky from sticking a whole cookie in his mouth and promptly breathing like a dragon when the molten chocolate burns the roof of his mouth.

“Hot, hot,” Bucky garbles around a mouthful of half-chewed chocolate chip.

“No shit. Those just came out of the oven, you maniac.” Clint pours him a glass of milk and shoves it into his hand, shaking his head with a smile. He’s vaguely disappointed that work doesn’t need them back, but if he had to be stuck anywhere for a few months, there are worse places, and worse company.

* * *

It’s still May, but it doesn’t feel like May anymore. It feels like February but also nearly Christmas, and honestly, Clint doesn’t know what day it is anymore. The only semblance of time-keeping he has these days is the list.

“You’re cheating!” Clint wails as he digs around in the mess of fake plastic jewelry for the dreaded black ring, stuffing it onto his ring finger angrily. It only makes it to the second knuckle, clearly made for tinier hands than his.

“It’s a chance-based game, babe. I’m spinning the arrow, same as you.” Bucky, who is becoming increasingly bedecked in beaded necklaces, bracelets, and pinching clip-on earrings, steals the spinner back from Clint and gives it a flick, moving his game piece along the board.

It lands on the crown.

Clint throws his hands up and nearly knocks the whole game over as he stands in a huff. “Here, might as well take this too, it’s black like your soul.” He tugs the ring off and flicks it at Bucky’s head, the thing bouncing off and clattering on the table.

Bucky picks up the tiny plastic crown and sets it on his head as he watches Clint pace to the kitchen. “Best two outta three?”

“No.”

Bucky picks up the black ring and tries to slip it on his pinky with the other rings. “Order pizza?”

“No.”

Bucky sighs. “Babe, I can’t help that I’m the prettiest princess—”

“Just shut up. It’s a stupid game.”

A heavy silence falls.  Clint tugs the fridge open and stares at its contents blankly before shutting it again. He goes to turn around but suddenly there’s a strong chest against his back, arms wrapping around him from behind and a nose nudging against the back of his ear.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice is soft. “You’re right. It’s just a game.”

Clint sighs heavily, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. That was stupid. He knows he’s being stupid. “Sorry. I’m just—”

“Hot. Bored. Pent up.” The gentle rubbing of Bucky’s nose turns to a press of his lips. “I know, me too. That new AC unit should arrive tomorrow, I’ll get it installed as soon as I can.”

Clint sighs. It’s been like this more and more lately. Tensions have been rising with the temperatures outside, and the longer they’re in the apartment the smaller it seems. Neither of them had minded sharing Clint’s loft apartment when they’d decided to move in together. Bucky’s place had cost an arm and a leg but Clint owned this building so it meant they could live rent free. Now though, it’s becoming increasingly clear how little privacy and space to spread out there is.

Bucky’s arms disappear from around him and Clint turns, the weary tension melting away as he gets a good look at the too-small plastic crown perched on Bucky’s head and the multicolored beads straining to stay fastened around his neck and metal wrist.

Clint snorts.

“What?” Bucky levels him with a raised brow and a hand on his hip.

Clint just lets his eyes slide over to the pile of board games they have yet to open from their Ebay bulk buy of 90’s nostalgia games. “I’m gonna kick your ass at Guess Who.” He bumps past Bucky, drawing his phone out as he goes. “And I’m ordering pizza!” he calls over his shoulder. “Not because you said it but because I want it.”

“Sure. Hey, get extra olives.” Bucky catches sight of himself in the dim reflection of the microwave, tucking his hair behind one ear. Huh. The earring look’s not half bad.

“I absolutely will not.” Clint stage whispers as he puts the phone to his ear and two seconds later hears the familiar ‘ _Archie’s Bar and Pizza’_ greeting. “Hi, hey, it’s Barton. Uh—yup, the usual,” A pause. “Yeah—and extra olives on that?”

* * *

Clint didn’t add “cage fighting” to the list without conscious thought. It wasn’t a whim of a decision, but he doesn’t draw attention to it either, just slips it in between bullet journaling and calligraphy and waits for Bucky to find it.

“So,” Bucky tugs the list out from under the magnet holding it to the fridge. “How exactly did you plan on doing this one? Thought we already put wrestling on the list.”

“Hold on,” Clint murmurs distractedly from where he’s filming Alpine pouncing on Lucky’s swishing tail. He sends the video to Natasha since she’d sent him one of her cat Liho that morning. “Wrestling’s not the same thing.” He says finally.“As MMA fighting?” Bucky frowns at him. “Sure. Technically. But you already know how to fight.”“Okay but we didn’t put regular wrestling, we put Turkish oil wrestling. Totally different.” He’s looking forward to that day. They haven’t discussed how or where they’re going to do it but they watched enough Youtube videos of sexy, slicked up men grabbing each other’s asses that they both got excited about it.

“So what did you mean by cage fighting?”

“Like… the kind of training they gave the Winter Soldiers.”

Bucky goes still.

“No. That… No.”

“Hey, hear me out.” Clint turns more fully to look at him, tucking a leg up under himself on the couch. “I was trained by SHIELD when we didn’t know we’d be going up against monsters and magic and all that. But SHIELD doesn’t exist anymore to put me through fight training worthy of taking on enhanced people. I’m just looking to sharpen my skills.”

“Then ask Natasha. She knows everything I know.”

“Natasha’s not here. Come on Bucky, please? Just teach me some moves. I’m the weakest—”

“Hey.” Bucky snaps. He’s got a glare in his eyes, but his tone immediately turns soft. “Don’t you dare start with that weakest link bullshit.”

Clint squints, glancing down at his phone in his hands. “M’just saying.”

“Well say something else. We’re not cage fighting or whatever. We’re doing,” He looks down at the list in his hand. “Calligraphy.”

“The calligraphy kit didn’t arrive yet.”

Bucky sighs in frustration, murmuring something under his breath about greedy trillionaires and bad services. “Fine. Then we’re doing candle making.”

“Don’t have that kit, either.”

“Cheese making.”

“Did you buy the milk?”

Bucky did not buy the milk. “Uh,” He skims around for anything they can do. “...Cleaning.” It’s not on the list but it’s the first C-activity he can think of.

Clint flops back against the couch with a groan. “Seriously?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” He looks around the apartment. They’ve been inside nonstop since March. Bucky’s not a neat freak but not a slob. Clint, however, can go from tidy to disaster in under a minute. “Come on. I’ll tackle the kitchen, you start on the bedroom.”

“How about we start in the bedroom together and work our way down.”“Tell you what.” Bucky tacks the list back up on the fridge. “You make that bedroom spotless and I’ll help you wreck it again once we’re all done. Good?”

Clint sighs and trudges over to the stairs with all the enthusiasm of a begrudgingly obedient child. “I guess.”

They’re an hour into deep cleaning the apartment when Clint gives a shout of realization followed quickly by a groan. 

“Aw, Bucky,” He shouts down from the loft. “You could have picked cocksucking!”

* * *

“I smell like bleach.” Clint whines, sniffing at his clothes.

The cocksucking had happened once the apartment was clean, but it had been a little lackluster considering Clint had sworn Bucky tasted of Pine-Sol. Bucky promised to re-add it to the list so they could dedicate a day to it, and then dragged them both into the bathroom for a shower.

“Too hot?” Bucky asks as Clint edges out of the spray, bumping into him as he tries to climb into the small shower behind him. He reaches past Clint and twists the knob, waiting until it’s cooled down to a lukewarm. It’s not Bucky’s preference but he knows Clint will go lobster red if he takes anything close to a hot shower.

“Thanks.” Slipping back into the spray, Clint wets his hair and rubs water over his face, then shuffles out of the way for Bucky to do the same. It’s a dance they do well after months of practice.

There’s an air of reverence in their showers together. It’s brought on, in part, by the fact that Clint can’t wear his aids in the shower. Silence falls between them as they fall into their routine. Clint’s shower is stupidly small and the bulb overhead has been blown out longer than Bucky’s even lived in the apartment. It’s intimate. Soft lighting, brushing against each other with every movement. There’s something magic about it.

Bucky presses a kiss to Clint’s shoulder as he reaches past him to grab the shampoo, squirting it into his hand. As he starts to massage it into Clint’s hair he’s rewarded with a relaxed groan that makes him smile.

He pulls, just a little, and Clint follows the motion until his face is tucked against Bucky’s shoulder. The fresh scent of Clint’s bright purple shampoo fills his nostrils—Clint got it because of the color, but Bucky likes the way it makes his pretty blond hair shine.

“I got you,” he murmurs. It doesn’t matter that Clint can’t hear him or read his lips. There’s comfort in saying it. “Know you’re probably disappointed we didn’t do the fighting thing today. I just…” He closes his eyes as he focuses on the feeling of his fingers on Clint’s scalp instead of the tightness in his chest. “Don’t like doing rough stuff with you.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere. Clint would snap back so quick that Bucky’s all kinds of rough with him and he’d give him that _look_ —and if Clint ended up with his face against the shower wall while Bucky fucked the snark right out of him, well it’d be his own damn doing, wouldn’t it?

Bucky nudges Clint when it’s time to rinse, guiding him under the spray and helping push the suds away from his eyes. He draws him back in and smooths some conditioner through the tips of his hair, then gives him a tap so they can trade places.

Clint blinks his eyes open and the smile he offers makes Bucky’s heart sing. He plants a kiss to Clint’s nose and earns an affectionate nudge and a brief peck to his lips, then those gifted fingers slide over his scalp and it’s his turn to moan.

“How are you so good at that?” he murmurs, eyes closing at the feeling.

“Talent.” Clint says back. Bucky says the same thing every time Clint washes his hair, it’s just a part of the ritual.

It’s a toss-up these days whose hair takes more maintenance. When they’d started dating they’d both been ‘soap is soap’ kinds of guys, but the magic of a relationship—of their relationship in particular—is it’s way more rewarding taking care of each other than taking care of themselves. 

Clint buys the good shit for Bucky, the extra hydrating conditioner that adds body and wave and makes him look like a hair model. It’s cute, and Clint would never put that effort in for himself but for Bucky it’s a carefully curated routine.

And if the hair routine wasn’t luxurious enough, the body washing has gotten ridiculous. It’s Nat’s fault, really. She gifted them an expensive cleansing oil for Christmas that made both of them gasp at first pump. The scent is lush and cozy, and the feel is silky and slippery—good for cleaning and _great_ for getting handy.

“Ohh,” Clint’s eyes flutter closed as Bucky crowds into his space, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck as his hand slides low and strokes along his length.

There’s pushing and pulling and mouthing as Bucky’s fingers make practiced work of getting Clint open, and then he pins him back against the wall and hefts him into his arms, guiding his legs around his hips and slides on home.

“James,” Clint gasps reverently, tipping his head back against the cold tile behind him. Bucky kisses at that soft spot right under his chin and mouths down his throat as he rocks into him. They’ve got all the time in the world and he has every intention of taking Clint apart until the water runs cold.

“Love you,” Bucky murmurs, nuzzling up to his ear. “Know you know what I’m saying.”

Clint nods shakily, arms wrapped around Bucky’s neck. “Love you.” He murmurs back.

Little rituals, branded into both of their hearts time after time.

Bucky grinds forward slow and methodical until he feels the temperature of the water tick a degree cooler, then he hoists his arms up under the backs of Clint’s knees and starts thrusting in long, deep strokes.

Clint moans and whimpers, shivering as he comes apart over what could be minutes or hours. Time melts away as he gives himself over to the sensations. “Close,” He gasps, arching into Bucky’s touch.

"I've got you." Bucky speeds his hips, capturing Clint's mouth in a clumsy kiss as he chases his own orgasm. He slips his hand between them, and it only takes a few strokes before he feels Clint tense under his touch and pulls back to watch. Clint arches off the tile, head back and eyes closed, water droplets clinging to his lashes like tiny diamonds glinting in the dim light. He coats both their stomachs as he comes, gorgeous abs flexing and thighs trembling.

He’s beautiful. He’s breathtaking. Bucky feels all the breath in his lungs stolen away by how perfect he is.

“Jamie,” Clint whimpers, soft and sweet, tears dripping out from under those pretty lashes. It’s a nickname no one calls him but Clint, one that only exists in private moments like this.

Bucky comes right then and there, overwhelmed by Clint and everything he is in this moment. His hips stutter as he pushes in as deep as he can, wanting to feel fused together, totally and completely one.

He presses his brow to Clint’s, letting time lapse away again as they come down slow from the high. The water is cold against his side. He doesn’t really care.

It’s only Clint’s shivering that brings him back. Bucky blinks open his eyes sleepily and carefully draws out. He gives them a quick rinse, taking special care to clean Clint up before shutting off the water and helping him out. He hurriedly wraps a towel around himself, then another around Clint, hoisting him bridal style into his arms and carrying him to bed.

As soon as they’re tucked under the covers he tucks a knuckle under Clint’s chin and tips his head up, making sure Clint’s reading his lips. “Hey,” He murmurs, brushing his fingers against his face tenderly. “Hi baby.”

“Hi.” Clint mumbles back, eyes barely open and cheeks still a little tear-streaked. Bucky thumbs over them and gives him tender kisses.

“You good?” A sleepy nod and stifled yawn.

Bucky smiles, his chest filled with emotions so sweet and blooming it feels like his heart is made of cotton candy. Spun-sugar love that’s light and fluffy and melts on his tongue, leaves him feeling homey and nostalgic and so, so _happy_.

He didn’t know he could feel happiness like this again. Like before… everything. Not until he met Clint.

“I love you.” Clint says it first, searching his face with a fond familiarity.

“I love you too.”  Bucky wraps his arms around Clint, holding him close and kissing his forehead. He can feel sleep pulling at the edges of his mind and happily accepts it, breathing in the sweet, clean scent of Clint’s skin as he hugs him just that little bit closer.

* * *

Despite all the softness, despite being well fucked and well slept, despite everything going so _right—_

Bucky wakes up needing to hurt.

If he’s being honest with himself, he was overdue for a day like this. You don’t go seventy years as Hydra’s fist and then retire to a life of peace and tranquility. He was made to destroy; as much as he’s fought to learn a different way of being, there are still days when his training comes clawing its way back.

There are days like today where if he doesn’t feed that beast that lives deep in his belly, it will come out and consume everything he loves as retribution.

Clint’s still fast asleep beside him and Bucky allows himself a brief moment to appreciate the way his lashes brush against his freckled cheeks, the boyish softness to his face, the slight shadow of strawberry blonde scruff along his jaw. He leans in and kisses Clint’s head gently before extracting himself from the sheets and padding downstairs.

He hushes Lucky with a gentle rub to his head as he goes to the door. “We’ll go on a walk later, bud. Go lay down.” He pats his head again and slips out of the apartment. He has to hustle past Aimee’s door when he hears the knob jiggle and just barely makes it to the stairs as she and her girlfriend start saying their goodbyes in the hallway. Their neighbors are nice, but Bucky’s in no headspace to try and hold a conversation.

The basement is made up of two rooms: one holds the communal washers and dryers, and the other functions as Clint’s makeshift range and gym. Bucky lets himself in and locks the door behind him. It’s only then he lets himself start to fall apart.

“Fuck.” He scrubs his hands over his face, feeling like there’s fire ants crawling all over his skin. He takes deep, gasping breaths, feeling every muscle in his body coiling tight. His metal arm whirs and before he can even process the movement he’s put a crack in the concrete wall. It crumbles under his fist, next to all the other dents he’s put there since moving in.

_Don’t fight it. You know it’s always worse if you fight it. Let it take you._

There’s no one down here to hurt but that doesn’t stop him from turning into a wrecking ball. Clint once compared it to when Bruce hulks out. His vision zeroes down to a pinprick and anything in front of him becomes a target. Time stops ticking—he could be down here an hour or ten seconds and it would feel the same.

He takes apart the whole room, throws the whole rack of weights against the wall, tears the punching bag clean in two and then breaks those pieces in half for good measure. The targets are already in bad shape from the archery lesson but Bucky finds the gun he’d left down here and empties a whole clip into each of them until they’re nothing but splinters. He finds Clint’s practice bow he left down there— _no no no not the bow!—_ and snaps it over his knee like a twig.

Bucky relates to Bruce. He sure feels like a monster when he comes to and sees the carnage. He can feel the beast inside of him snarling, still dissatisfied but placated for now.

“Aw, bow...”

Bucky whirls around from where he’d been staring at a splinter in his hand. He’d completely missed the click of a key in the door. “Fuck, Clint, you can’t be down here right now.”

“I waited until you stopped,” Clint tells him. “Sounded like you’d cooled off.”

“I—what the hell are you doing?”

Clint nudges the door open a little more with the laundry basket balanced on his hip, the gentle tumbling sound of the dryer filtering in from behind him. “Figured I’d check on you while I was at it.” He purses his lips, looking around at the mess.

Bucky keeps thumbing over the splinter in his finger even though he’s pretty sure he’s pushed it under the surface at this point. “You should go.”

“Should I?” Clint sets the basket to the side, coming into the room instead and letting the heavy door swing closed behind him. “Bucky, what if—”

“No.”

“I’m good at taking a hit, been doing it my whole life.” He sees the way Bucky twitches at the thought. “Sorry but it’s true. And like you said, I already know how to fight.” His casual stance gives way as he strikes like a viper. Bucky catches him by the wrist at the last second but it leaves just enough of an opening for Clint to swat his cheek with his free hand. Not hard, but enough to make Bucky glare at him.

“ _Clint.”_

_“Bucky.”_ Clint mimics his stern tone, staring him down.

Bucky’s the first one to break, turning with a huff and nudging a dumbbell with his foot. “I’m not taking this out on you.”

“Well you had no problem taking it out on my bow.”

It’s kind of an asshole thing to say when Clint knows he didn’t mean to, which is what tips Bucky off to the fact that he’s being baited. “Knock it off.”

“Could at least let me get in a good punch or two.” Clint steps up onto the mat and starts kicking rubble off of it, clearing the space.

_Don’t do it._

“If we do this… we do it on my terms.”

“Okay.” Clint rolls the last of the weights out of the way.

He feels shaky and excited, a little bit nauseous. There’s already adrenaline dripping into his bloodstream. “You start to feel like it’s too much? Tap out. You see me start to lose it? Tap out.” 

_This is a bad idea._

The horrible thing is that he kind of doesn’t care. That awful part of him—that beast he fights back down every damn day—it’s grinning like mad, ready to bite the hand that dares reach to pet it.

“Tap out early, got it.” Clint doesn’t wait for a formal beginning, he just whirls around and throws a kick right for Bucky’s kneecap.

Instinct takes over and Bucky jumps into action. He intercepts Clint’s next flurry of attacks with brutal efficiency and gets his first punch to the gut, landing two more before Clint manages to get out of reach again. The next time he comes at Bucky he’s got something in his hand—the broken tip of an arrow, Bucky finds out, when it slashes across his arm.

“Sorry,” Clint grins, looking not the least bit sorry at all.

Bucky grunts and blocks as Clint tries to swipe at him again. “S’fine.” He jabs and it catches Clint in the ribs.

“Are you pulling your punches?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t.” Clint catches another punch from the metal hand and those hurt like a bitch but Bucky's almost vibrating with tension as he forces himself to hold back. “Come on, hit me. I’m not made of glass, I can take it.”

Bucky frowns, pausing only for a moment to catch a breath and search Clint’s eyes for a lie. “Okay.” He says after a moment, resetting his stance and coming in heavy on the offense.

Bucky knows Clint’s a damn good fighter. He’s got a weird style that’s all his own, with an edge of scrappy street fighting SHIELD could never train out of him and a wild use of acrobatics that are equally distracting and surprising. It’s that unpredictability that really sets him apart. Clint’s got an eye for using everything within reach as a weapon, something Bucky also does and appreciates when he sees it.

At least, he’d appreciate it if he weren’t trying to beat the little shit into the mat. Every time that arrow slashes his arm he gets a prickling feeling behind his eyes.

He throws a punch and it takes Clint down to the mat. He hisses as he feels the arrowhead dig into his calf. He looks down and sees blonde hair, a glint of metal. A knife?

_Do you know where you are?_

When they’d lock him in the concrete cell it was always to train the other soldiers. They’d go until one of them got knocked out. No pulling punches, no surrender.

_Do you know_ who _you are?_

He kicks hard and grabs the man in front of him, grappling him back to the ground. His metal hand closes around his throat.

“Bucky!”

He winds his arm back and slams it into his face.

“Bucky, stop,” Clint coughs and chokes, digging his fingers around the iron grip around his neck. “Please Buck—”

_What have you done?_

* * *

When Clint comes to, it’s because Lucky is licking water out of his ear. _“Blegh,_ ” He waves a hand at him clumsily. There’s a bag of frozen peas on his face that’s slowly sliding out of place and Lucky just keeps happily lapping at the dripping condensation. Clint reaches up and groans as he pushes it the rest of the way off, the movement jostling his nose too much and making him flinch. “Ow—aw, nose.” It’s broken, he can already tell. It takes a few minutes of him laying there trying to get the rattled pieces of his brain back into place before he remembers why his face feels like it’s been dented in.

Well shit.

Gingerly, he shifts to prop himself up on an elbow. He’s in bed, hearing aids out, but suspiciously alone. With a grunt he rolls all the way up to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, plucking his hearing aids off the nightstand and stuffing them in. “Bucky?” He calls as he switches them on.

To his left, he hears the flush of the toilet and then the bathroom door opens. Bucky freezes as he steps out and sees Clint’s awake, jaw set and eyes flicking over him before he walks right past and starts down the stairs.

“Wait—” Clint scrambles after him, stumbling over himself as he follows. He reaches out without thinking, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm.

Bucky snatches it out of reach and heads down to the living room.

It’s dark outside. Lucky and Alpine are curled up together, dozing by the couch, which means it’s likely after dinner. That also means he’s been knocked out all damn day.

That’s when Clint notices the extra blankets and pillow piled on the couch, which Bucky is beelining for.

“Hey,” Clint follows him down and hurries ahead, getting in front of Bucky before he can sit down. “Hey, come on, we don’t have to do this.”

Bucky stares Clint down and tries to sidestep him.

Clint steps in front of him again, meeting his gaze.

“Clint.”

“Bucky.”

_“Don’t_ do that.” Bucky snaps.

“Then knock it off.” Clint can’t keep the edge out of his voice. It sounds like annoyance but it’s driven by the fear that’s twisting in his belly like a knife. “Okay, so the cage fighting thing was dumb.” 

Bucky looks at him incredulously. “That wasn’t even cage fighting, Clint, that was just me beating the shit out of you! I said I didn’t want to do that shit and this is why. Do you realize how fucking scared I’ve been waiting for you to wake up?”

Guilt pools in Clint’s belly. He’d been surprised Bucky stuck around instead of going to crash at Steve’s place or something. But of course he’d stayed to take care of Clint’s dumb, unconscious ass. And he’s probably eating himself up inside over hurting him in the first place. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help, or...” he shrugs and drops his gaze. “Or be a distraction?”

“Did you lie to me?”

“What?”

“When you said you could handle it.” Bucky’s eyes keep boring into Clint even though Clint won’t meet them. “Did you lie?”

“Does it matter?” he asks helplessly. It’s the wrong thing to say and the second it comes out he wishes he could take it back. What he means is it’s obvious he fucked up, they both know he should have tapped out. That’s what he should be saying right now, but he just stares at the interlocking metal plates on Bucky’s arm by his elbow, still not meeting his eyes.

“Does it— Clint.” Bucky sounds mad. His tone is even, there’s an edge of exhaustion to it, but the frustration and disappointment feels worse than if he were shouting. “When I put boundaries in place they’re not always just for you. Of course I don’t want to hurt you, but I also don’t want to relive that shit. Trust is a two-way street. Do you get that?”

“I—yeah.” Clint’s voice is soft and monotone. He doesn’t mean to, but he feels himself shutting down, closing off. It’s a defense mechanism hardwired into him, from his father shouting at him to Coulson’s rants when he’d go off book. “I’m sorry.”

They stand there at an impasse until Bucky shifts, finally moving past him to the couch. “Go to bed, Clint.”

He does. What else is he meant to say to that? Clint shuffles back up the loft stairs, feeling like a reprimanded child. As he turns to the bed he catches sight of Bucky out of the corner of his eye and swears he hears him mutter something to the effect of _‘unbelievable’_ before sitting down on the couch and putting his head in his hands.

Clint lays awake until the early hours of the morning, with a sore face and a guilty conscience.

* * *

They don’t fight often, and when they do it’s usually just a bunch of hot air. They blow it off apart from each other for a few hours until one of them breaks. Then they wander back together with booze, banter, and kisses as they both apologize for being the same brand of stubborn.

This isn’t like that. Clint isn’t sure if it’s because this whole lockdown thing is its own special kind of hell, or if he just really, really fucked this one up, but Bucky ignores his entire existence the next day. He stays in the apartment until Clint wakes up, then he takes Lucky for a walk, popping back in only to drop him off before leaving for the rest of the day. Clint’s asleep by the time he gets home.

The day after that is exactly the same.

Day three gives him hope. Bucky sleeps in and has a late breakfast, and doesn’t get up and leave when Clint comes down and joins him. Clint tries to hold a conversation but gets only grunts in response. Still, it’s progress.

On day four Clint cracks a joke and he blinks at the wrong moment but he’s pretty sure he saw the hint of a smile on Bucky’s face. Just for a second. It gives him enough courage to hatch a plan.

While Bucky’s in the shower he commandeers the couch, rearranging the pillow and blanket so they’re optimal for snuggling. He’d put in an Instacart order for a bottle of whiskey—specifically Crown Royal Regal Apple, Bucky’s favorite. Maybe it’s overkill but at this point he doesn’t care. He’s poised and ready when Bucky comes down the stairs, acting casual as he pours the whiskey over ice.

“Hey, so I was thinking we could watch the rest of _The Mandalorian_ tonight.” He scoots over to make room on the couch and holds the rocks glass out to Bucky hopefully. He just hopes his fingers aren’t trembling like his heart is.

Bucky blinks, looking down at the whiskey with a furrowed brow. “I already brushed my teeth.” He says after a stretch of silence.

“Oh.”

So no booze. Strike one.

“Well we could still watch it. I wanna know if he ever takes the helmet off because I bet he’s hot. I don’t know how they make him so hot when you don’t even see his face. It’s the walk, I guess. He’s got a murder strut to rival yours.”

Silence.

Okay... No banter, either. Strike two.

Clint’s running out of ideas fast. He’d thought maybe he could coax out another one of those smiles or at least get him to agree to the show. Then maybe it would help him loosen up and there could possibly even be some cuddles if he plays his cards right and—

Alpine gives a mewl from upstairs, her little white head poking out from the railing of the loft. Bucky and Clint’s heads both follow the sound, and to Clint’s utter dismay, Bucky turns and wordlessly crosses the room and pads up the stairs.

Clint watches him go, the pooling sadness in his gut starting to feel like a flash flood. His last glimmer of hope is extinguished when Bucky picks up Alpine and holds her in one arm, turning down the covers to the bed. The way he climbs under the covers and tugs them tight around him makes it pretty clear there's no open invitation to join him.

Looks like there won’t be any kisses, then. Not even goodnight ones.

Strike three. He has officially fucked up.

He feels eyes on him and glances up again hopefully, but it’s just Lucky. “Hey buddy,” He pats his thigh to call him over, figuring if he can’t get kisses from Bucky then he’ll settle for Lucky licking his face. But Lucky just looks from Clint to the stairs and back before turning and following Bucky up to the loft. And yeah, okay, Lucky prefers to sleep at the foot of the bed but somehow watching his wagging tail disappear upstairs leaves Clint feeling hollow.

* * *

Five days in and Clint’s pretty sure he’s going to have a mental breakdown. Bucky has said all of four words to him since their initial fight and if the apartment felt small before, it feels stifling now.

The worst part is that Clint can’t even go anywhere. Bucky had been uptight about him leaving before, he’d probably be downright furious if Clint tried to break quarantine now.

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe he’s just waiting for an opportunity to get out and if Clint showed he doesn’t technically need him to run errands or take care of Lucky, maybe he’d be gone for good.

Clint works himself up into a panicky mess thinking about whether or not Bucky is going to break up with him over this. He thinks over the sparring and the fight and picks apart in agonizing detail all the places he should have said this or done that. He becomes hyper aware of every noise he makes in the apartment, sure that each one is going to be the last straw that makes Bucky snap and decide Clint’s too annoying to put up with anymore.

When he wakes up on the sixth day, it’s to the feeling of gentle, probing fingers against his face. He feels the fingers still as his breath changes with his state of consciousness, but Clint doesn’t want to lose the comforting stroke of them against his skin so he forces himself to feign sleep, keeping his face relaxed and his breathing even. The fingers resume after a moment, gingerly touching at his bruised nose and cheeks. They skim over his lips and jaw before traveling further down, just barely nudging the blankets out of the way to probe along his ribs.

Checking his injuries. When it seems Bucky’s satisfied with how things are healing up, Clint feels his hands slip away—but not before giving the softest of pets to his hair, carding through it with tender affection. Clint feels his heart ache. Even with his eyes closed he can imagine the way Bucky’s brow furrows when he’s worried, the way his dimpled chin juts out and the corners of his mouth turn down, eyes stormy with guilt.

The hand in his hair drifts down to cup his cheek and it takes all of Clint’s effort not to lean into it. But he gets flicked in the forehead, hard.

“Ow—”

“I know you’re awake, babe.”

Well, futz.

Clint peeks his eyes open and sure enough Bucky’s wearing exactly the expression he’d imagined, albeit a little less stormy and a little more exasperated. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.”

They stare at each other.

“I’m sorry.” Clint breaks immediately. He’s got nerves of glass after nearly a week of being ignored and it’s suddenly the most important thing in the world to get this out while Bucky’s actually acknowledging his existence. “I’m so sorry, I fucked up and I lied and I pushed your boundaries even after you said no. I recognize that I crossed a line and that’s—I’m just— Bucky, I’m _sorry._ Please don’t shut me out again, I can’t—”

The feeling of lips pressing to his forehead makes him stop. Bucky’s hand moves to cradle the back of his head tenderly. 

“I know.” Bucky murmurs, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I know, I’m sorry too. I got in my head about what happened and I let it fuck with me. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

And just like that Clint’s back in Bucky’s arms, feeling them wrap around him as he clambers into his lap, holding on tight as he hugs him.

Bucky rocks them a little side to side, his right hand still cupping the back of Clint’s head while his left arm hooks around Clint and holds him tight. He shushes Clint softly when he tries for a few more apologies and murmurs a few more reassurances that they’re okay.

They’re okay.

* * *

They were always going to be okay, Clint realizes later that day, now that the panic and anxiety have been blown away and they’re laying on the couch in a tangle of limbs. From the safety of Bucky’s arms he can look back on the past week and see all the times Bucky held himself back not as a punishment to Clint, but a punishment for himself.

“So what, he’s basically a dad now?” Bucky asks as the credits roll on the last episode of _The Mandalorian._ “

He can be my daddy any day.” Clint says around the lip of Bucky’s whiskey glass, taking a sip before it’s stolen out of his hand.

Bucky’s fingers find their way into Clint’s hair and he gives a sharp tug, enough that it elicits a moan. He pulls Clint’s head to the side, pressing his lips to his throat. “Thought I was your daddy.”

“I—yup, that’s what I meant.”

“Hmm.” Bucky rubs his nose against Clint’s skin and then slowly sucks a hickey high on his throat. No point in hiding it if they’ll be in lockdown for a while. “So what’s next on the list?”

“Huh?” Clint blinks his eyes open from where they’d been half lidded, pouting at the loss of Bucky’s mouth on him.

“The list.” Bucky rolls half on top of Clint, which earns him a disgruntled whine as he squishes Clint into the cushions, but he rights himself as he manages to fish a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. He flips it open with his fingers, skimming down it.

Clint frowns as he looks over Bucky’s arm at the paper. “That’s not my list.” A few activities jump out, particularly ‘ _Bang Clint’_ which is written every other line, but there’s also standouts like ‘ _Boyfriend appreciation’_ and ‘ _Butt smacking.’_ And at the very bottom—

“Coffee!” Clint looks up brightly. “Hey, I have coffee on my list too!” He tries to roll off the couch, with every intention of going straight for the kitchen, but Bucky’s arms wrap tightly around him, squeezing him to his chest.

“No,” he says firmly, dragging him back. “It’s almost midnight, Clint, we’re not drinking coffee. We can do coffee tomorrow.” Bucky hefts Clint up into his arms as he rolls to his feet, giving his cheek a big kiss. “Now we’re going to bed and I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t even say _Mandalorian._ Got it?”

Clint smirks, wrapping his arms and legs around Bucky as he gets carried upstairs. “What, you jealous?”

Bucky gives him a flat look. “Is the Mandalorian here to fuck you right now?”

“God I wish.”

Bucky dumps Clint on the bed unceremoniously. “You’re just making more work for yourself, baby. Gonna have to beg me for it now.”

Clint groans and crawls to the end of the bed to Bucky, already reaching for his clothes to try and get at some skin. “I promise I won’t mention him at all. Not even a little bit.” He glances up at Bucky as he gets his pants undone. “... But have you ever considered adding a cape to your uniform?”

Bucky grips Clint’s chin, narrowing his eyes at him playfully. “Alright, clearly we need to put something in that mouth of yours. Open up.”

* * *

“What! How did you do that?” Clint gasps, looking over at the perfect peaks of foam on Bucky’s latte.

“I swear to god if you bump me,” Bucky growls in warning, using the lightest of touches of a toothpick dipped in chocolate syrup to add whiskers on the foam cat he’s delicately constructed.

Clint pouts down at his own clumsy attempt at pouring the leaf pattern into his latte. “This shit is hard.” He gives up and pushes it away, grabbing instead his cup of cold brew and taking a big gulp. He’s already so hopped up on caffeine after they did a tasting of different exotic coffees brewed a bunch of different ways.

“You know,” he comments as he watches Bucky compare his art to Alpine where she’s sitting by his stool and looking up at him. “Technically we went out of order. We were supposed to do cocktails before coffee.”

Bucky grunts, glancing up at the microwave clock. “It’s barely noon.”

“So?”

Bucky’s eyes flick to the fancy green bag on the counter that holds his apple whiskey.

Clint leans against him, dropping his chin onto Bucky’s shoulder and batting his eyes at him. “What’s a little quarantine day drinking?”

Bucky tips his head to side-eye Clint, but a flash of white out of the corner of his eye makes him jerk his head. “Alpine, no!” He shouts as she licks the foam cat’s head right into her mouth. He snatches for her but knocks over the glass coffee maker in the process, which teeters at the edge of the counter before falling off and smashing on the ground.

“Shit—hey! Get back here!” Clint shouts to Alpine as she slinks through the other coffee equipment. Not wanting her to jump down onto the broken glass, he scrambles to his feet to try and grab her, but forgets that Lucky is laying next to his stool and trips right over him, hitting the ground face-first.

Bucky rubs a hand over his face at the chaos around him. “Nu yob tvoyu mat', skol'ko mozhno-to.” He grumbles as he steps over Clint where he’s groaning into the floor. Avoiding the glass, he meets Alpine at the end of the counter, hefting her into one arm. “You’re in trouble.” He says to her firmly, holding her up so they’re nose to nose. “Now go give your mama kisses, you got him hurt.” He steps back over and sets Alpine on Clint’s head, then grabs the broom to get things cleaned up.

By the time the glass is dumped in the trash and the coffee all cleaned up, Clint is almost done hugging and repeatedly apologizing to Lucky for tripping on him, and Alpine has completely lost interest in all of them, curling up in a warm patch of sun by the window instead.

Bucky shoves all the other coffee making things aside and smacks their cocktail shaker down on the counter. “What’ll it be, kid?”

Clint opens his mouth to answer but Bucky’s already adding ice to a glass and cracking open a coke. He watches him pour coke and whiskey and reaches for it. Bucky just winks and tugs the glass out of reach, tossing the whole thing back in one go.

“Rude.” He pushes another glass at Bucky insistently. “I guess that’s a yes on the day drinking. Surprise me.”

Bucky nods, flipping the shaker base in his hand. He skims around the kitchen pulling out more ingredients until he’s got the makings of a mai tai in front of him.

“That undercover mission as a bartender really did you well.” Clint stares at Bucky’s biceps as he shakes the drink up, mesmerized by his muscles.

“Picked up a few tricks.” Bucky pours the drink over ice.

"Make it pretty, do the grenadine thing.”

“I’m getting to it, who’s the bartender here?” He pours the grenadine on anyways, creating a sunset ombre in the glass.

“Aren’t you gonna garnish it?”

Bucky gives him a flat look. “You take what I give you and be grateful.” He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Brat.”

“Dick.” Clint drags the glass over and gives it a taste, wiggling happily in his seat. “Man, we’re gonna be so fucked up tonight."

Bucky shrugs a shoulder, wiping down the counter with a cloth and tossing it up onto his shoulder. “You pick up any random skills from missions?”

“Oh yeah. Tons.” He sips his drink, winking over the top of it. “But it’s gonna take a few more drinks before I tell you.”

“One long island iced tea coming up,” Bucky says, already measuring out vodka. “That always loosens you right up.”

“I’m not _that_ easy, Barnes.” Clint scoffs, sipping his mai tai. “...Make that two iced teas and then try your luck.”

* * *

“Get up.” Bucky shakes Clint’s shoulder urgently. “Clint, we gotta go.”

“Wh-huh?” Clint jerks up in bed and blinks wildly, hands patting over his ears. He’s got his aids in. When did his aids get put in? “Washappen’?” 

“Up. Come on, gotta go fight.” Bucky pulls him by the arm, hauling him from the comfort of the covers.

Clint rubs a hand furiously over his face, trying to get his brain back online. “Shit.” He gets his wits about him as he hauls ass over to the closet and throws it open, tugging his suit on as fast as possible.

Bucky keeps pacing by the stairs, already fully dressed and holding Clint’s bow and quiver in his hand. As soon as Clint’s most of the way there he barrels down the stairs and out the door, Clint hot on his heels.

“Are we getting a lift?” Clint turns to rush down the back staircase like they usually do but Bucky grabs him by the back of the shirt and tugs him towards the basement stairs instead.

“We’ll take your car.”

Clint swears. He hates taking his baby anywhere near a fight. It took him ages to fix it up last time. “Why can’t we take your bike— hey!” He jerks to a halt as Bucky suddenly stops in the center of the basement, barely having time to duck as he whirls around and throws a punch at Clint’s head.

“What the fuck— what was that for?” Clint frowns when he sees Bucky’s grinning, and suddenly seems in no rush at all to get out the door. Clint watches him set his bow and quiver on the washing machine, then come back over and drop into a casual fighting stance.

“You said you wanted to learn, right?”

“Learn wha—” He has to duck another punch, Bucky comes at him with a flurry of movements that Clint only half manages to block. But Bucky catches him behind the leg and gets an arm around him, hauling him up off the ground and smacking him down.

It’s only when Clint’s back hits the mat that he realizes there _is_ a mat. The ones from the gym room, dragged out into the bigger space in here. “What the hell is happening?”

“You said you wanted to learn how to fight like me.” He gives Clint’s chin a light touch with his fist and then hauls him back up to his feet. “Come on, throw your best shot.”

“There—wait. So there’s no fight?”

“Sure there is. It’s right here.”

Clint looks from Bucky’s fists to his own and back. “I haven’t even had coffee y—ah! Okay! Okay!” Clint throws his arms up as Bucky comes in hot. He’s ready for it this time though, anticipating the leg that comes up to knock him down while Bucky’s trying to bat at his face. He hooks his arm around Bucky’s thigh and heaves, hard. He over-balances in the motion and goes crashing down on top of Bucky, but he at least takes him down in the process.

Bucky grunts as his back hits the mat but he’s grinning like mad. “Hey, that was good!” He pecks a kiss to Clint’s cheek and rolls him off, bouncing right back to his feet and offering Clint a helping hand up. “Again.”

They spar all morning, until they’re both sweaty and banged up. Bucky pulls his punches a little, but it’s more about learning technique than taking a beating.

“Holy shit,” Clint pants after another round, looking down at Bucky from where he’s pinned beneath his knees. “I did it! I did the thigh choke thing!” It had felt like a blur in the moment, trying to follow through with the motions Bucky’s just taught him and that he’s seen Nat do a hundred times over but could never recreate.

Bucky chuckles and pats his ass, thunking his head back on the mat for a breather. “Yeah you did. That’s my boy.” He his ass another little pat before sitting up with a grunt. “I need a burger. You want burgers? Let’s order some. A burger and some fries. Maybe a milkshake.”

“Daddy worked up an appetite.” Clint teases, climbing off him and clasping Bucky’s hand, hauling him to his feet. “Not that you need the extra pounds, you’re heavy as fuck.”

“Damn right. Thick like peanut butter.” Bucky smacks Clint’s ass as he heads for the stairs. “And I’m not the only one.”

“Hey, I’m nowhere near as chunky as you.” Clint calls after him, but Bucky’s already jogging up the stairs way faster than should be allowed after that heavy of a workout. “Goddamn supersolder.”

* * *

“Can you imagine if this was just what our lives were like now?”

Bucky just hums in response, his hand sliding up and down Clint’s bare back. After lunch and a much needed shower they’d compared lists and decided to dedicate the rest of the afternoon to the next activity: cuddling.

“I mean,” Clint continues, “besides the pandemic part, obviously. But I like just hanging out. No obligations, just time to do what we wanna do, if we wanna do it.”

“Mm. S’nice.” Bucky presses a soft kiss to Clint’s head. In the afternoon sunlight Clint thinks he looks a little like Alpine, soft and sleepy.

“Maybe this is what retirement is like. That’d be nice. Should we retire?”

No sooner has he said it than both their phones start to ring.

Bucky winks an eye open. “Seriously? You had to say that?”

“Aw, Avengers, no.” Clint groans as he lifts his head and sees the emblem on the screen. “I was finally starting to like this whole quarantine thing.”

Bucky sighs heavily, leaning his head back on the arm of the couch for one more peaceful moment before patting Clint’s hip. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Clint climbs off him and finds his shirt, tugging it on and stuffing his feet into his boots. “Hey, can we swing by Brooklyn Kettle for coffee on the way?”

“Absolutely not. But we can swing by Little Roy’s.”

“You only like that place because they named a drink after you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You’re a narcissist.”

“I’m delicious.” Bucky scoffs, closing the door behind them.

“Wait, I forgot my mask!”

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [magenta_llama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magenta_llama/pseuds/magenta_llama) for help with Russian.
> 
> [Here's the beautiful mermaid picture that inspired Clint's drawing for the art scene.](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/post/618940324124950528/look-bucky-free-pizza-its-a-fishing-line) Also, the 90's dress-up board game they play is called Pretty Pretty Princess and those clip-on earrings hurt like a bitch.
> 
> [I'm on Tumblr!](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/)


End file.
